


take this sinking boat (and point it home)

by elizaham8957



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Post canon, engaged stydia, i am sorry guys this is darker than my other stydiaweek stuff, just one more angsty fic and then I will return to the fluff I promise, monroe is the WOOORRSSTTT, she needs to let my babes rest, written for stydiaweek 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 02:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15353769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: It had been so long since Lydia had truly felt this defeated.All it had taken was one night, and suddenly she was back in high school again, a seventeen year old girl stumbling upon a dead body, helpless to save anyone, to do anything. Most of the time, now, she felt like she knew what she was doing, like she had some semblance of control in this freakish nightmare of her life. Fugue states and supernatural screams were supposed to be a thing of her past. She had a job, and a master’s degree, and a fiancé that she loved, and, for the most part, a life that seemed relatively normal. But then nights like this happened, and that entire world, this life she had fought tooth and nail to build, brick by brick, came crumbling down like it was made of cards.If she really wanted to point fingers, she knew exactly who to blame: Monroe.





	take this sinking boat (and point it home)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear readers! For day 6 of stydiaweek, I present you with: angst. (Well, kind of. As much angst as I can do, which is not much.) Today's prompt is emotion, so I went with, like... hopelessness? Despair? That is making this sound WAY darker than it really is, jeez. I promise it's not THAT angsty. 
> 
> Anyways, this was based on a prompt someone sent me on tumblr probably literally a year ago, and I finally got it written! I hope you enjoy, and I'd love to know what you think! I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter as well. Thanks for reading!!

It had been so long since Lydia had truly felt this defeated. 

All it had taken was one night, and suddenly she was back in high school again, a seventeen year old girl stumbling upon a dead body, helpless to save anyone, to  _ do  _ anything. Most of the time, now, she felt like she knew what she was doing, like she had some semblance of control in this freakish  _ nightmare  _ of her life. Fugue states and supernatural screams were supposed to be a thing of her  _ past.  _ She had a job, and a master’s degree, and a fiancé that she loved, and, for the most part, a life that seemed relatively normal. But then nights like this happened, and that entire world, this life she had fought tooth and nail to build, brick by brick, came crumbling down like it was made of cards. 

If she really wanted to point fingers, she knew exactly who to blame:  _ Monroe.  _

They should have known that her disappearance was too good to be true, that when she vanished into the night with her tail between her legs after the anuk-ite had been defeated, she wouldn’t let them rest forever. But Lydia had been in Boston, and Stiles had been in DC, and for the first time in  _ years,  _ Lydia had gotten to feel normal. Gotten to worry about upcoming assignments and missing her boyfriend, not psychotic werewolf hunters determined to make sure all her friends were dead. Scott and Argent had been keeping an eye on it, had been listening for any clue that Monroe was planning to strike again. And for four years, they’d heard  _ nothing—  _ not the faintest clue that she was still out there somewhere, plotting her revenge. Lydia had actually started to believe that maybe, just maybe, they might all have a shot at a normal life. No supernatural disasters had plagued Beacon Hills since they had all gone off to college. They’d all made it to see not one, but  _ two  _ graduations in their lifetime. She and Stiles had an apartment and a dog and a wedding they were planning. She hadn’t felt the beginnings of a scream, clawing its way out of her throat, since she’d left her hometown without looking back. 

It was easy to get drunk on that sort of fantasy, she’d discovered. To get swept up in a life you’d never let yourself dare to believe you’d have, to start thinking that the rest of your life might be blissfully, mundanely  _ normal.  _

And then a case file about a person who had been shot with a silver bullet up in northern California crossed Stiles’s desk at work, just by chance, and that fantasy had disappeared like smoke. 

It had taken a little digging and a  _ lot  _ of pestering his boss, but Stiles had managed to unearth a whole  _ web  _ of killings from the past few months, ranging from Washington state to Texas, completely unrelated except for the cause of death— silver bullets, in every single one of them. He had managed to sneak Scott into the morgue with the latest victim, and it had taken Scott about two seconds to confirm the dead person was indeed a werewolf. Before Lydia could blink, Stiles was being handed the case, and the murder board in their home office was covered in photos of Monroe again, like some freakish spell of deja-vu. Their wedding planning had been put on indefinite hold, Chris had reached out to all the contacts he had, and the pack had prepared for war. 

They had just hoped it wouldn’t come this soon. 

Stiles opened their apartment door for Lydia, following behind her into their dark living room. It was barely midnight, but Lydia felt drained, emotionally and physically, from the events of the night. 

Stiles flicked on the living room light, tugging off his coat and hanging it up next to the door. Lydia just stood in the doorway, unable to move, her throat still aching, mind still flashing with images from the fight tonight, like they were burned into the back of her retinas. 

“Hey, Lyds,” Stiles said, softly, guiding her forward so he could close the door. Gently, he eased her coat off of her, hanging it next to his.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes full of concern, hands coming up to frame her face. She opened her mouth to say that yes, she was, even though it was a  _ lie, such  _ a lie, but she couldn’t force any sound to come out. She blinked, and all she could see was the battle unfolding before them, the pack fighting ferociously against Monroe’s hunters, Lydia channeling her powers like she hadn’t in  _ years,  _ before that awful feeling started seeping in, the beginnings of a scream tickling at the base of her throat; before she could do anything, warn Scott or Stiles, or try to force it back down, Lydia had screamed so loud that the hunters around them were knocked backwards, the ones not unconscious from her voice fleeing the scene immediately. 

It hadn’t mattered. The fight had been a setup, and Monroe’s real target was dead by the time they found them. Lydia had almost vomited when they’d found the body, her throat still raw from her scream— the werewolf couldn’t have been older than sixteen. 

“Sorry, that was a dumb question,” Stiles said, shaking his head slightly. One of his hands drifted from her cheek, cradling the back of her head, and Lydia leaned into his touch, feeling a little bit of the sorrow seep out of her bones at the feel of his fingers threading through her hair, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone. 

She closed her eyes, leaning her head against his shoulder, but she still couldn’t get the image of that werewolf out of her mind, splayed out on the ground with a bullet between his eyes. 

“God, Stiles,” she whispered, voice strained, her throat still raw. “That— he was a  _ kid.  _ He was so  _ young.”  _

Stiles sighed, his arms fully circling her this time, one hand running up and down her back, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to how cold and dead she felt inside. 

“I know,” he returned, resting his head against hers. “I know, Lydia.” 

“When is this going to stop?” she choked out, her voice hoarse and low. It felt like they’d spent a  _ lifetime  _ fighting to keep this town safe. Were they  _ ever  _ going to get a break? 

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully, his cheek resting against her hair, hands still spanning her back. “I wish I did.” 

“I just… I’m so  _ sick  _ of finding dead bodies,” she admitted. “Is that horribly selfish of me? I want to solve the Riemann hypothesis, and bitch about correcting papers, and redecorate our living room, and get  _ married.  _ I don’t want to keep waking up in the middle of the night, screaming because another innocent person was  _ murdered.”  _

“That’s not selfish,” Stiles said, and she could feel him sigh. “Not at all. I want things to go back to normal too.” 

His arms tightened around her, holding her closer. “I don’t want to keep being too late,” she whispered into his skin, snaking her hands up his back, her arms folding so her hands rested on his shoulders. 

“Hey,” Stiles responded, voice low, throaty. He pulled away from her slightly, loosening his arms around her so he could meet her eyes. “It’s  _ not  _ your fault.” 

She looked up at him, and she was trying to keep her expression neutral, but she knew he could see the guilt in her eyes even through the facade. 

“How’s it not my fault?” she asked, voice impossibly low. “I still can’t control these powers enough to use them to do any  _ good.  _ People are just  _ dying,  _ and I can’t do anything to stop it.” 

“Lydia,” Stiles sighed, pulling her head to his chest. “Stop it. Stop blaming yourself.” He paused, his hand carding through her loose hair, cradling the back of her head to his body. “You did everything you could, okay? Please don’t think any of this is your fault, because it’s  _ not.”  _

She sighed, leaning into his touch, letting herself calm down by listening to the steady  _ thump-thump  _ of Stiles’s heart through his t-shirt. “I know,” she told him, because really, she knew that his words were true. Even now, even with a much better grasp on her powers than she had had in high school, there was only so much she could do, as aggravating as that was. 

“I’m just so  _ tired,”  _ she said, her eyes sliding shut, head still against Stiles’s chest. He hugged her closer, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head, one of his hands falling away from her back. She lifted her head, meeting his eyes, but his were trained on his phone, his eyebrows pinched together in concentration as he typed something one handed. 

“What are you doing?” she asked, but he just shushed her quietly, the hand still on her back stroking up and down in soothing patterns. 

“I’m making you feel better,” he told her, as his phone began to play music. It wasn’t a song she recognized; it sounded older, but it was slow, soothing, melodic. He tucked his phone into his pocket, offering her his free hand as he pulled her gently into the middle of their living room. 

“Dance with me,” he said, softly, earnestly, and she just nodded, smiling at him slightly as he tugged her right back into his chest, the two of them swaying gently in time to the music. 

“You have the  _ weirdest  _ taste in music,” Lydia told him, but she liked the song, the calming rhythm and the gentle background instruments soothing. Stiles seemed to understand she was teasing, because he just shook his head at her in bemusement, stroking her hair as they swayed back and forth. 

Lydia lost track of how long they danced around their living room, one song fading into another as Stiles led her back and forth in slow circles. She couldn’t help laughing as he dipped her backwards, a grin tugging at his lips as she spun under his arm, like some ridiculous version of the tango. He pulled her back into his arms, and Lydia sighed as his hands splayed across her back again, his fingertips warm through the fabric of her shirt. 

“You okay?” he murmured into her hair, his head dipping down so he could kiss the crown of her head. She sighed into him, her cheek still pressed against his chest, the steady beat of his heart keeping her grounded. 

“Yeah,” she answered, and for once, her statement was actually true. Even now, after all these years, it amazed her how Stiles always knew exactly what she needed to feel better— even when she didn’t know herself. 

“It’s gonna be alright,” he promised her, arms tightening around her, pulling her in closer. “We’re gonna catch Monroe. We’re gonna stop her. I promise, okay?” 

“Okay,” Lydia responded, settling into his arms, because despite everything, the fighting and the fear and the  _ fatigue,  _ the doubt that everything would settle down again, the feeling they’d never get to go back to normal— despite it all, Lydia trusted Stiles. With her heart, her home, her  _ life.  _ And she knew, if he said it was going to be okay, he would find a way to make it okay, regardless of what it took to get there. He was true to his word. Lydia knew he would make it happen. 

She wasn’t about to start doubting him now. 


End file.
